(no subject)
Three drabbles, written separately, which I've put together as a sort of set.
title: the life cycle of a relationship
pairing: andy/toby
rating: r/nc17
a/n: ninefish.
I.
He skims a hand down her arm and laces their fingers together, rings digging into skin. They don’t know how to talk anymore, after months of yelling, blood, tears, and the loudest silence he’s ever heard, so he pounds into her, his hand moving roughly between her legs, and the dresser rocks with every thrust. His lips graze her shoulder, and through gritted teeth she can only order, “harder,” so tomorrow she’ll have teeth marks on her skin. He catches her eye in the mirror, but has to look away at the dull sheen he finds.
She’s leaving him tomorrow.
II.
His eyes are on her lips, and it’s distracting; she’s trying to convince him, Josh, and three colleagues that she’s right, and she can’t do that with his eyes boring into her. She shifts, crossing her legs, trying not to remember how the fingers that are tapping a pen against paper felt between her thighs. Impossible.
He’s talking, sneaking glances her way (he’s better at multi-tasking), and two can play this game, so she licks her lips and flips her hair over her shoulder, her fingers linger against her exposed neck.
He shifts in his seat. She’s good at this.
III.
She brings out his inner romantic, so he’s balancing a breakfast tray as he opens the bedroom door. He’s sure she’s still asleep; the babies kicked against their hands for hours, so her rest was uneasy.
She’s still curled drowsily among the pillows but a smirk plays across her lips. “What are you doing?”
He looks down at the tray he’s carrying, then back at her, and when he speaks he’s barely able to stop from rolling his eyes at himself. “Showing you I care in about the stupidest way possible.”
It’s almost enough to make her change her answer.
title: the life cycle of a relationship
pairing: andy/toby
rating: r/nc17
a/n: ninefish.
I.
He skims a hand down her arm and laces their fingers together, rings digging into skin. They don’t know how to talk anymore, after months of yelling, blood, tears, and the loudest silence he’s ever heard, so he pounds into her, his hand moving roughly between her legs, and the dresser rocks with every thrust. His lips graze her shoulder, and through gritted teeth she can only order, “harder,” so tomorrow she’ll have teeth marks on her skin. He catches her eye in the mirror, but has to look away at the dull sheen he finds.
She’s leaving him tomorrow.
II.
His eyes are on her lips, and it’s distracting; she’s trying to convince him, Josh, and three colleagues that she’s right, and she can’t do that with his eyes boring into her. She shifts, crossing her legs, trying not to remember how the fingers that are tapping a pen against paper felt between her thighs. Impossible.
He’s talking, sneaking glances her way (he’s better at multi-tasking), and two can play this game, so she licks her lips and flips her hair over her shoulder, her fingers linger against her exposed neck.
He shifts in his seat. She’s good at this.
III.
She brings out his inner romantic, so he’s balancing a breakfast tray as he opens the bedroom door. He’s sure she’s still asleep; the babies kicked against their hands for hours, so her rest was uneasy.
She’s still curled drowsily among the pillows but a smirk plays across her lips. “What are you doing?”
He looks down at the tray he’s carrying, then back at her, and when he speaks he’s barely able to stop from rolling his eyes at himself. “Showing you I care in about the stupidest way possible.”
It’s almost enough to make her change her answer.